


To Want, To Need

by LazyWriterGirl



Series: LWG's FE Femslash Week 2018 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Day 2, F/F, Sort of Pre-Femslash Really, This is My Rarepair of Choice, Trying to Subtly Use the Themes, Tumblr: fefemslashweek, Wedding Dates, Welcome to Rarepair Hell Where I Live, double wedding, rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyWriterGirl/pseuds/LazyWriterGirl
Summary: To most, Cordelia is a perfect soldier. Inside, she's a desperate mess.Prompts:Desperation/Perfection/Learning





	To Want, To Need

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, I do not own the characters, nor the world found in Fire Emblem: Awakening. All I have are my words, such as they are.

The problem, Cordelia thinks, must be that she has no idea what the people she loves are looking for in a lover, themselves.

 

The war with Plegia is over and peace has returned and she hates it, hates herself, hates everything. The prince she has long lo— _ _admired__  is marrying a woman he barely knows, the tactician she’s come to view as a best friend and potential lover already __has__  a lover in the form of her childhood best friend, and while she knows that a few of the Shepherds have eyes for her, she cannot give herself to any of them. It isn’t about Ch—the prince, and it isn’t about Robin, and it isn’t just because she hates to do what she can tell their world is expecting her to.

To marry a man whose wounds she’s cleaned, whose strength she’s backed, whose arm has saved her life…she cannot marry just for the sake of that. Camaraderie does not a relationship make, but she does not have what Robin and Sumia have. What the prince must feel he can have with the beautiful Feroxi dancer.

 

She isn’t so desperate that she would doom two people to a loveless marriage.

 

Instead of lamenting over the lonely life ahead if her and getting nothing done, Cordelia deveops a new trainimg program for herself. Something to keep her sharp. She has to learn to be better.

Has to, has to, has to.

She trains day in and day out as the castle around her buzzes with wedding preparations. Two of them, as the prince had insisted on his best friend sharing his special day. A double-wedding for the Ylissean prince and his Plegian grandmaster, to their dancer and noblewoman, respectively. Unheard of, except that anybody who might have questioned it would not dare speak out against their future Exalt and the woman whose strategies have defended their borders for months without issue.

Sometimes Cordelia hears the whispers of the palace staff, hears her own name crop up time and time again. Some seem on her side, some think it should be she and not Sumia. She and not Olivia. She and not Robin, if the nobles she and Sumia had grown up with are to be believed. She finds a little mirth in those rumours.

As if she is a threat to those relationships.

 As if she would ever work to harm the man she’s tried repeatedly not to love, or the woman she’s hated herself for loving since the day she saw the look in Sumia’s eyes at the sight of her. And not to mention Olivia, who has been nothing but kind of the rare occasions when they have spoken. How dare they even suggest that she could do anything to hurt Sumia, who has been Cordelia’s dearest friend for over a decade.

 

As long as she focuses on the subtle __thud, thud, thud__ of her lance against the worn wooden dummy before her, everything will be fine.

It’s all fine.

She doesn’t have to worry about a thing.

 

“Lady Cordelia, please, you must take a break,” says a voice. She turns toward the young girl standing in the doorway, hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. It’s much higher now than it had been when she’d started. “We need to decide on what you’ll wear to the celebrations.” The girl stammers and curtsies mid-sentence.

Cordelia sighs. As a countess it is her duty to appear at the celebrations, and even more compelling than that is the duty she has to her friends, but Cordelia cannot bring herself to so much as __attempt__  at drumming up enthusiasm. She’s had her heart broken three times in quick succession—her sisters, her prince, her friend—and to have to sit there, at their double wedding ceremonies, to pretend that she is happy for them when internally she wants nothing more than to die? Too cruel, far too cruel to ask it of her. She has no choice, she knows, but still. How cruel can this world be?

“Very well then,” she says, “Allow me a moment.” She still has four repetitions to go before she can even think to take a break, but the girl in the doorway looks absolutely terrified. Cordelia wonders if it might be her fault, and she does her best to hold her practice lance in a low, relaxed position.

The girl curtsies again. She’s a nervous little thing, a newly hired handmaiden from the castle-town, if she isn’t mistaken.

 

As it turns out, the trembling girl knows a fair bit about clothing, and Cordelia barely has to say anything before she’s pulling out a lovely dress.

 

It’s long, but slim, no sight of the steel cages of Rosanne’s courts in sight. Robin’s egg blue and trimmed with delicate accents of white and gold. It’s a gorgeous dress, but she wishes she didn’t have to wear it. Cordelia sighs. No use in panicking over what’s going to happen. She should do her best to be happy for them. She should just be the supportive friend they are expecting her to be.

Simple, right?

Perfectly simple.

“We should probably have coordinated with your escort, milady?”

Oh, __dung.__

Of course she’d forgotten about that.

Who could she possibly bring? A random noble, and everybody will either think she’s secretly been engaged all this time, else they’ll know how desperate she is not to look completely alone. She tells herself she isn’t, but she knows better. To make matters worse, Sumia knows all of the nobles she might have asked, knows the details of Cordelia’s history with all of those people. There would be questions, disappointed shakes of Sumia's head. All of it.

A fellow Shepherd, then.

But whom?

 

 

***

 

 

Cordelia wonders at herself as she stands outside one of the guest room doors. Could this not be construed as more desperate than inviting someone she knows from court? And really, thinking about it, the impropriety of an Ylissean countess going to a royal celebration  with—the door opens, and then it’s too late to change her mind, anyway.

“Hmm…Cordelia, what are you doing here?”

Ah. That dry tone of voice might have deterred anyone else, but Cordelia really __is__  desperate, and this is the best option she can think of; let the nobles think what they want. She’d rather they believed her enspelled by an acerbic Plegian sorceress than anything else they might come up with. Tharja being as blasé as she is, hopefully she’ll go along with it without too much issue.

Oh gods, is the sorceress even interested in women, or is that only applicable to Robin?

Why does it matter? Cordelia isn’t inviting her to __bed.__  Just to a double wedding featuring people with whom they are both most obviously enamoured. This isn’t a recipe for disaster, not at __all.__  Cordelia had learned to cook for herself at the age of seven—she’d know if this were one fo those.

“I wanted to ask you something, but if now is not a good time for you I can…?”

It’s only now that she realizes how exposed Tharja is. Granted, she’s really only missing the sheer garment she wears—and the cloak, of course—but revealing as __that__  normally is, this is literally smallclothes and smallclothes alone. Cordelia sucks in a breath under the guise of shifting her smile into one of apology instead of greeting. It’s been a while since she’s lain with anyone, and though she’s never thought of the majority of her comrades that way…”Pardon?”

“Haven’t said anything.” Tharja smirks, and Cordelia hates how easily flustered she’s getting. Objectively, yes, Tharja is an attractive woman—almost too attractive despite how bizarre she can be, really—and yet Cordelia has never personally been attracted to her, not in all the months they’ve spent travelling together. Not a single bit. “Well come in, then.” There’s something about that sly half-smile, though…

“Pardon?”

“Forgo the knightly manners, wouldn’t you? We’re both women here,” Tharja says, shrugging, as if that means it should be perfectly fine. As if another woman wouldn’t have the kind of thoughts that Cordelia might have entertained, herself. Under different circumstances, of course. “Well then? I’m closing this door in five seconds regardless of which side of it you stand on at that time.”

Cordelia slips in at about the four second mark, heat rising in her cheeks when her hands brush against the smooth skin of Tharja’s waist, completely on accident. “My apologies.” Goodness, she’s shaking almost as bad as her handmaiden had been!

Tharja scoffs and shakes her head. “Why so nervous?” She runs a hand lazily through her hair, and Cordelia does her best to look at the wall behind Tharja’s head.

“Well, I—

“This has something to do with the impending nuptials, I’m guessing.”

Cordelia sighs, trying her best to steady her racing pulse. Tharja is just a friend, more a comrade really, no need to be so jittery around her. Never mind that perhaps, somewhere in the very recesses of her mind, she’s always been __intrigued__ by Tharja. Perhaps, when she’d been sure nobody else was looking, she’d even gone so far as to watch Tharja, just a little.

Perhaps she’d liked what she’d seen.

It isn’t that she’s smitten or anything—how could she be, all things considered—but Tharja just strikes her as…interesting. Like a... like a new and unknown text filled with secrets.

“Cordelia?” Tharja prods, and Cordelia’s cheeks burn brighter when she notices that the other woman is only inches away from her. “You didn’t hear me at all, did you?”

She looks down, wondering exactly how she’s managed to present herself as such a monumental fool. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

She turns to leave, cursing herself. Never has she struggled like this when it didn’t concern Chr—the prince. How mortifying. And in front of someone as nonchalant as Tharja, for whom this all must be so terribly amusing.

Tharja grabs her by the wrist, deceptively strong despite how much shorter she is by comparison. “Stay.” Cordelia turns. “Come with me to the wedding.”

That was certainly easier than Cordelia had made it. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure you know well enough that I can’t well ask any of the nobles, Plegian as I am. And the idea of going with any of the others is unappealing to me, to say the least. Besides, you were going to ask me anyway.” So confident.

“As fr—comrades, yes, if you were amenable.”

Tharja tilts her head. “I’ll meet you on the church steps a quarter hour before the ceremony, then.”

Cordelia nods, “Wonderful.” Tharja doesn’t release her wrist, not until she looks down at where their skin is touching. “Tharja?”

The other woman smirks in that same damn intriguing way. “This should prove more interesting than I’d thought.”

“Oh?”

“Robin’s been telling me to learn more about the Shepherds. I may as well start with you.”

Cordelia excuses herself, shutting the door behind her. Were she someone else, she thinks she might have managed to shake the whole encounter off. Treat it like it were nothing.

 

For some reason though, she can’t get Tharja out of her head.

 

 

***

 

 

A quarter hour before the wedding, she’s waiting on the church steps when Tharja materializes, almost out of nowhere. She’s wearing a dress the colour of pale seafoam, and though it covers much more than what Cordelia is used to seeing, she can’t escape the feeling that Tharja is uncomfortable. “Everything alright?” Perhaps her eyes are making things up, or perhaps she's already learned a few of the other woman’s tells, but Tharja is shivering despite the fair weather. She looks smaller, somehow, without the cloak. Not quite as imposing.

Still, Tharja shrugs, the movement a stark contrast to her elegant dress. “Maribelle wouldn’t let me leave without changing into something __suitable__.” The venom dripping from her voice is almost funny. Almost amusing, actually.

“I certainly hope you didn’t harm the poor girl. She’s Olivia’s maid of honour, after all.”

“I’ve timed my little gift for her to happen later this evening. It will seem like a…natural inconvenience, if anything.”

Cordelia can’t help it, she laughs this time. The cheeky grin fighting for purchase on Tharja's face is well worth the anxiety leading up to this moment. They might be able to get to a point of friendship. She hadn’t known how funny Tharja could be, though she does wonder what sort of inconvenience the sorceress has in store for their prim troubadour. “Shall we?” Without thinking about it, she offers Tharja her hand.

The Plegian looks up at her, amused, but takes it anyway. Her skin is much warmer than Cordelia had anticipated. “I suppose. Do you think I’ll have to hex anyone to get us good seats?”

Not that Cordelia knows if any of the seats at this wedding could be good—speaking from a purely emotional standpoint, as of course the decorations are flawless—but she laughs again, head shaking. “Do your best not to curse or hex or blight anyone else today.” She looks at Tharja, pleased to see her pale eyes lit up with something, even if that something is most likely mischief.

“Very well then,” Tharja says. Walking into the church, it becomes apparent that they needn’t have worried, anyway. The entire first and second rows of pews are reserved for the Shepherds. Lissa waves from the first row, her arms wind-milling grandly, as if they were out in the field instead of walking within one of the nation's finest churches. “Oh look, it’s your little girlfriend.”

“The princess is __not__ my—

“At ease, soldier,” Tharja says, tugging her down until they’re almost the same height, “You should learn to have a little fun. __Relax__.”

Cordelia straightens, fighting the fire that threatens to spread across her entire face. She may not be desperate for real love— _ _what a lie__ —but she’s certainly desperate to look normal. As approachably perfect as ever. It’s what the Shepherds expect of her. It’s what she expects of herself. She can do this. She’s Cordelia, isn’t she? “I know how to have fun.”

“I wonder about that,” Tharja says, and Cordelia’s chest tightens. She’s almost positive that nobody else has seen this side of Tharja. They trade a few more lines, passing banter as easily as they did the dinner rolls in the mess hall. It’s nice to make these little jokes, but as soon as they are within earshot of their fellow Shepherds the other woman snaps into her usual doom and glool. “Rotting your teeth before they’ve even arrived? Well done, Gaius.”

“Sunshine, you’re no fun. No fun at all,” says the thief, surprisingly clean-looking in a simple dark tunic and pants. “Gotta say though, you look sweet in colour.” His signature headband remains in place, and Cordelia can see the outlines of a handful of lollies under his shirt. How much candy must he have hidden on his person? “Lookin’ good, Cordelia. Very good.”

She nods at the compliment, “You make a lawful man today, Gaius.” At her side, Tharja squeezes her hand.

“By request of Bubbles and Blue,” he winks, the motion easy. She smiles at him just as a strong hand claps down her on the shoulder. Sully, no doubt.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” says the other redhead. “The colour suits you.”

Cordelia tilts her head, noting how Tharja hasn’t said anything since the gentle jab at Gaius. Their hands are still entwined but she can’t think of a reason to let go just yet. “Thank you, Sully. You look dashing!” And it’s true. Sully cuts a fine figure in the deep red of her trousers and tailored shirt.

Sully looks as if she’s about to say something, to suggest a revisit of a memory tickling at the back of Cordelia’s mind. Before she can, however, Tharja shifts, and Sully turns her eyes on the dark-haired beauty. “Whoa. Very nice, Tharja.” Her gaze shifts appreciatively from one of them to the other, and then she winks and turns to speak with Miriel. Cordelia looks askance at Tharja, who only manages a shrug before tugging Cordelia towards the edge of one of the pews.

They don’t speak much after that, enraptured as they are—both of them most likely against their firmest desires to remain supportive, if aloof—with the ceremony. It’s all breathtaking, and while Cordelia feels twinges in her chest every time the lovers share their loving glances, she finds she cannot bring herself to feel any bitterness. She just wants something…like this. It does not have to be so grand, nor so widely celebrated. But Cordelia wants this so badly, and she has no way to get it.

She has to learn to be lovable first.

“You’re crying.” Tharja’s voice is dry, no inflection to show how she feels about Cordelia tearing up like a lost child.

“I’m alright.” She wants to show them, wants to show her friends just how glad she is for them. They need to know. She wants all the best for them, truly, she does, but why can’t she show them? Why can’t she stop crying? Why can’t she smile?

__Smile,__ damn it all.

Tharja nods, pulling her up as the couples make their way down the aisle, newly married and aglow with their love. It’s beautiful. Too beautiful for the tears that she’s trying to stop from flowing. “Here.” Tharja’s fingers brush her cheekbones, just under her eyes. “Hope you don’t mind.”

At first she doesn’t understand, but then she feels it. A smile tugging at her lips, small but very clearly there. The tears slow, then stop, and she’s able to catch Robin’s and Sumia's eyes as they turn toward the pews of Shepherds. They both blow her kisses and flash her positively giddy smiles, Sumia resplendent in white Ylissean lace. Robin’s new armour, perhaps the most formal thing she owns, shines bright in the sunlight beaming down through the open doorway. “Thank you, Tharja,” she says. “What did you do?”

“You wanted to show them how happy you were, but you couldn’t. I just helped you do that.” Tharja turns to her. “Your feelings were perfectly clear, so it wasn’t hard for someone with my ability.”

She nods, not quite sure how Tharja’s magic could stem the flow of her tears, or bring that much-needed smile to her face. Still, Cordelia can’t complain. It would have been wretched for Robin and Sumia to see her with tears in her eyes, an ugly downcast turn to her lips. “Ready for the banquet?”

Tharja shrugs as they begin to file out of the church. “I suppose it can’t be much worse than this.”

“I thought the ceremony was wonderful.”

“I did, too.”

 

 

***

 

 

“Dance with me, Cordy!”

Sumia’s hands tug on hers, and Cordelia allows the other woman to pull her up. She’s been avoiding the newlyweds as much as she can without seeming standoffish or rude. It’s just easier, and it helps that Tharja is of the same mind. She thinks she’s gotten to know her new friend rather well in the last few hours, aided by so much time together and the ever-flowing fonts of Feroxi ale provided by the Khans. They’ve talked a great deal, about friendships and life before war, about family. About love.

 “Tharja, Robbi was looking for you!”

“Was she?” Tharja drawls. Cordelia is almost afraid that the sorceress is going to say something rude, but Robin herself joins them, white hair swept into a high tail. Her face is tinged with pink from all the dancing, and her jacket is nowhere to be found, the embroidered vest she’d put on beneath it all that covers her torso.

“Come then, Tharja, dance with me.”

Tharja is out of her chair in an instant, eyes sparkling with the ale and something else that Cordelia can recognize as the way she looks at Robin sometimes. The way she has to __stop__ looking, at both Robin and at the pri—at Chrom. She watches Tharja move toward Robin and she can’t help it. “You’ll dance with me afterward, won’t you?” She didn’t ask Robin.

“If course I will,” Tharja says, reaching out, letting go of Robin’s hand to pat, no, to carress Cordelia’s cheek. She leans into the touch more than she might have had she been less influences, but Tharja’s hand is warm and soft and she’s clearly a little more desperate for attention than she’d previously believed. “Now, go on.”

Robin and Sumia’s exchange a look that she can’t quite decipher, which is frustrating considering how good she is at reading others. Damned Feroxi ale. It goes down too easily, tastes far too sweet. She’s sure her cheeks are flaming red as she walks toward the dance floor with Sumia’s hand in hers. A familiar song begins. A waltz they learned together as girls.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Sumia says, stepping into Cordelia, then out again. “Tharja looks so nice in that colour, don’t you think?”

Cordelia smiles and nods, the fuzziness persistent even as she catches Sumia mid-trip, smoothing the move out into a proper transition as the song picks up its pace. “She’s been lovely today.” Sidestepping nimbly despite her inebriation, she touches her palm to Sumia’s, shifting with the steps of the dance. “You seem happy, Su.”

“I am,” says Sumia. Cordelia catches her before she can trip again, and she comes up from her near-mishap all smiles and fairy laughter. “You’ve always danced so perfectly Cordy. Remember when we first learned to do this?”

She does. Even as a child she’d been…desperate. To prove herself. To be the best. To attain the one thing people said she could not. She’d like to think she’s relaxed as she’s aged, but she knows that simply isn’t the case. “You learned it too, Sumia, and you’re dancing beautifully.”

“I want this for you, Cordy, I do, and I’m so sorry I too—

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Cordelia says, hugging her best friend closer to her chest as the music slows. “Don’t you dare. Robin loves __you__ , and you love her, and neither of you did anything wrong.”

“But…”

“No,” she repeats, kissing Sumia’s forehead the way she so often did when they were children. “Now please, let’s finish this dance with a smile? I wouldn’t want your wife to think I acted poorly.”

“She’d never!” Sumia laughs, half-pearls of tears stuck in the corners of her eyes. The rest of the dance goes swimmingly well, though Sumia does manage to trip over her own dress at one point, and on Cordelia’s on two. When the piece ends they curtsy towards each other, and then Cordelia feels warm hands spinning her about.

“Well then? Is it my turn for a dance?”

She almost laughs. The next dance is one traditionally reserved for intimate lovers; a decidedly popular dance amongst the youth, if not with their parents. The resolve in Tharja’s face stills her laughter, and she nods. Her throat feels dry. Tharja’s eyes cut into hers, clear and bright, the palest blue she’s ever seen. “Lead the way, milady,” she says, only half-joking at this point.

A few whoops and hollers follow them—Gaius and Gregor, no doubt—but Cordelia allows Tharja’s hands to place her own along the slim waist she’d only accidentally grazed mere days ago. “I stand by what I said earlier, you know.”

“You’ve said quite a bit today.”

Tharja's smirk causes her stomach to flip. “Cheeky, are you?” One of her hands flitters over Cordelia’s back as it makes its way to her shoulder. The other settles lightly on Cordelia’s arm, and she barely has a chance to wonder where Tharja learned the Ylissean style before they’re swept up in the dance. It’s more of a timed swaying than anything else, but Cordelia spots a handful of amorous couples making use of the closeness. She’s about to make a comment that will come out petty no matter how she tries to turn it into a joke, but Tharja presses closer. Cordelia feels a flash of envy at the way the woman feels against her, but that soon gives way to…something she’s only thinking about because of the ale. Yes. That’s it. Blame the ale.

“Tharja?”

“Relax. Even I know how to do that.” Tharja __giggles__ , and not in her usual look-Robin-I-killed-something way. It’s damned attractive, like the rest of the woman doing the giggling. “For a few more hours, at least, don’t be the perfect soldier. For Naga's sake, just be a young woman at a celebration.”

“What are you looking for in a lover, Tharja?”

The woman replies, but Cordelia can’t hear her. Can’t make sense of it. Blame the ale.

Maybe it’s the way Tharja’s eyes flash as she says the words.

Maybe it’s the result of all the little looks and touches they’ve exchanged today.

Maybe it’s just her own state of mind running away from her.

Whatever it is, it leads Cordelia to lean in slowly, to capture Tharja’s lips with her own. The other woman tastes like Feroxi ale and the spiced desserts served on Robin’s behalf—a Plegian recipe that the grandmaster somehow remembers, of all things. Cordelia moves slowly to the surrounding sway of the dancers around them, surprised when Tharja follows her. It feels good. Better than good.

 

She’s not sure where this is coming from, but she rather likes it.

 

When Tharja leans away slightly, she almost falls forward into the woman’s arms. Gooseflesh prickles along her arms, the anticipation of something unexpected lingering on her lips. “Well aren’t you full of surprises?” Cordelia smiles at the return of Tharja’s lazy drawl.

“I suppose I am, tonight.”

Tharja grins up at her, coquettish. As if she were someone else—though perhaps Cordelia has yet to see this side of her. “I wonder what else you might have in store for me.”

It’s a challenge, a dare, and invitation all in one, and Cordelia surprises herself with the boldness of her reply.

“Only one way to find out.”

 

 

***

 

 

She’s dishevelled and messy and her hair has seen far better days when she wakes up, but the first thing Cordelia notices—after the astounding realization that this is Tharja’s room and not hers—is that both she and Tharja are fully clothed. The uncomfortable folds of the dress can attest to the fact that it hadn’t been removed, and Cordelia can’t help but pat herself down, waiting to see if the material of her smallclothes has completely stuck to her.

It isn’t completely ruined, and she sighs. She can’t remember much, curse that damned Feroxi ale. She turns and sees Tharja’s hair, mussed and tangled but still silky in the coming sunlight. She has to leave. She cannot be here when Tharja wakes. “I’m sorry if I disrespected you at all last night,” she whispers.

Before she slips out she writes a quick note on the back of one of Tharja’s many slips of paper. It’s a recipe for some sort of headache cure.

She has to laugh a little at that, even though her own head feels like it was split with Vaike’s largest axe.

 

Robin comes to see her, surprisingly energized considering she’s to leave on a honeymoon trip shortly. Cordelia fiddles with a lock of hair before taking a deep, calming breath. She’s feeling much better than she had the day before, and in the days leading up to the wedding.

“Cordelia, I hope you enjoyed the celebrations? You and Tharja disappeared so quickly, I couldn’t see where you’d gone.”

“I’m doing well. Tharja was too when last I saw her. It was a lovely evening, Robin.” She smiles, surprised at how easy it feels. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you,” Robin says, brown eyes a warm honey colour in the light. “Before we left, I wanted to give you something.” Reaching into the pocket of her ever-present coat, the grandmaster pulls out a shining golden object. Red in the centre, glittering like a collection of stars. A Master Seal?

“Robin, what is this for?”

“I know that we are at peace, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious,” she says, her tone one of someone who suspects the worst of the future. “I want to make sure that should anything happen, our best are ready. You are one of our best, Cordelia, and I was wondering if you wanted to become a dark flier.”

“Aurora and I are ready.” She doesn’t need to think about her response. This is what they’ve been training for. This is how she can better herself, how she can acquire the skills she needs to prove that she can protect Ylisse and all of those whom she loves. “Thank you, Robin.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” says the other woman, pulling Cordelia into a quick side-armed hug that leaves her chest just a little too tight. “We have a few tomes to spare, and I’ve chosen someone to teach you their use. I’m sure you’ll do splendidly, quick learner that you are.”

Cordelia feels it in her hands first. Like a tingling that won’t leave. She turns, and Tharja’s standing there, a smirk on her lips and a tome in her hands. Wind magic. Most suitable for beginners. “Good morning, Cordelia.”

“Good morning,” she says. She’s barely able to pay attention as Robin pulls her in for another hug, saying something about mastery and heroism and Cordelia shining. She’s too busy watching Tharja. Eyeing the curve of her lips. What had they done and why can’t she remember all of it?

They wait until Robin leaves before beginning at the same time.

“What did we—

“We didn’t—

Cordelia holds out a hand. “Please, go on.”

Tharja laughs. “Ever the polite one once the ale’s gone, I see. Interesting.” She fingers the spine of the wind tome, the laughter clear in her eyes. “If you’re worried, there was no despoiling of precious chastities last night. At least, not that I can remember.”

“It…wouldn’t have been that.”

The other woman quirks an eyebrow. “Surprising. Or perhaps not.” She circles about—why hadn’t she noticed Tharja was moving—the ever-present smirk only serving to confuse Cordelia further. “Now, Robin has asked me to teach you how to cast magic. She insists you have the aptitude. Show me.”

Cordelia can barely keep up with the conversation, but she manages to extend her hand far enough to take the tome from Tharja’s grasp. The glyphs feel familiar, though she’s never thought to open up a tome until today—that’s a lie, albeit a small one, but the last time she’d tried she’d been a child. She follows Tharja until they are what must be a suitable distance from the target, and then Tharja is at her side, almost whispering in her ear. “Now, cast the wind spell.”

She tries.

It doesn’t work, and immediately she’s embarrassed, an apology on her lips.

“I—

Tharja’s finger stops her. “No, no. Relax. Try again.”

“Wait.” She wants to know something. “Last night, I think I asked you what you looked for most in a lover.”

“You did.” Tharja’s grin is infectious. “What of it?”

“I’ll cast the spell properly this time, but I want an answer from you.”

“Then cast.”

This time the magic heeds her, slowly at first, until she takes it to heel. It’s __hers after all. She can do this.__ Somewhere, somehow, she’s always known she could do this. “Ha!”

The spell flies from her fingertips, a gust of wind so cold it glows blue as it slams into her poor training dummy. Tharja claps once, smiling a mysteriously little smile. “Well done.”

“Answer the question,” Cordelia says. She wants to know. She needs to know.

She’s not sure why, but she does.

 

Tharja looks at her with something…strange in her eyes. “Power, Cordelia. Power.”

 

“Good to know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnd that's that. Follow me [ on Tumblr ](http://lazywritergirl.tumblr.com) if you are so inclined! I update on my life and my writing...sometimes. Honestly most of the time it's just a loooot of random reblogs from all the cool people I follow.
> 
> Also, if by some miracle I've managed to make you ship them, even a little, maybe check out [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9128692/chapters/20745154) which includes a 5 part arc for them. This is kind of a precursor to that, if you will.


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